


Just a Touch of the Fire

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment between John and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Touch of the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny ficlet written in approximately twenty minutes and I'm apparently feeling stupid enough to actually post this where people can read it-- A Scandal in Belgravia was just so brilliant, I needed to write _something._ I hope you all enjoy this (despite my ridiculous fondness for run-on sentences).
> 
> Also: title from "Just a Kiss" by Lady Antebellum, because inspiration really does come from the strangest of places.

“You stupid, selfish _bastard,”_ but calloused fingers slip through tangled black hair, twisting and tugging, mimicking the strings of his heart, shredded and strained but still clinging to this, to the white of his skin and the red of his lips and everything John has tried so hard not to face.

There’s the scent of tea from the next room, the distinct sound of Mrs. Hudson shuffling across the floor, and Sherlock stirs under John’s touch, eyes blinking open, vulnerable for that split second he’s allowed between one state of consciousness and the next. The ghost of a smile hovers at the corners of his eyes and John smoothes a thumb over the contour of his cheekbone, watching his lids fall shut once more.

“Bastard,” John repeats, barely a whisper, and Sherlock looks up just as John’s lips brush over his, parted and a little bit dry and it’s only a moment, less, but John’s fingers are raw, gentle against the side of Sherlock’s neck, only stuttering as Sherlock’s knuckles brush over John’s knee. Every point of contact crackles with a static that’s impossible _(undeniable),_ warmth that floods John’s neck, face as he pulls back, breathes. “Well.”

Sherlock’s hand presses to John’s knee once more, deliberate, eyes never leaving his face, and the smile is still there, evident everywhere but his lips, preoccupied as long, pale fingers thread into the hair at the base of John’s neck and tug him down once more.

The electricity turns to white noise and the quietest of shudders, and maybe when Mrs. Hudson enters the room minutes later, John still can’t breathe, lips shining, and maybe Sherlock’s are just this side of too red, but she doesn’t notice their fingers tangled together somewhere in the bedsheets, Sherlock’s touch calculated against John’s wrist and John doesn’t even try to pull away, pouring every word he can’t say into the desperate thrum of his pulse.


End file.
